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Sunday, July 3, 2016

Have not been posting too much on this blog -- and I should. Must make it part of my routine. Busy with the Christmas book and other projects and -- packing! Off to Ukraine tomorrow! So excited. I love being there. Am leading a tour with Canadian and Australian folks.

I wrote this article for The Ukrainian Weekly back in May 2007 -- it still applies.

See youse later in the summer! Have a good one.

The things we do...

Being There – So at Home in Ukraine

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

Have you ever come to a place you’ve never been before
and felt right at home? That’s how I felt when I first arrived in Ukraine in
1993; over the years, that feeling hasn’t changed.

Other cities, other countries have beauty, interesting
architecture and historic places. But being in Ukraine, whether in Kyiv, Lviv
or any small town or village, is so much more fascinating to me. Even though I
am far removed from the place – my parents left as young adults – I am so drawn
to it. After all, it is my ancestral homeland, where my roots are found. I
suppose if I did not know much about the place, maybe it would be like any
other tourist spot – old and interesting, and so what?

But, because it is the source of my roots, it is so very
special. I am so at home in Ukraine! Yes, I know, to the people there I am a
foreigner, a curiosity; I might even be regarded as one of those (expletive at
times deleted) diasporans. And yet, often I am taken as being from another city
or the next province. They think I am a native, but just not from right there.
Thanks to my parents, I mastered the language, and only rarely does someone
notice that it is not quite what is spoken there now. But that’s whole other
story.

I love walking around, whether in the city, town or
village – or the open countryside. I feel such comfort and a deep
soul-nourishing satisfaction. It is home in a very deep sense, something that
cannot be explained in any logical way.

The streets of Lviv, Kyiv, Kolomyia, Ternopil and
Ivano-Frankivsk have become so familiar to me that I rarely need to refer to
the city maps. I just head off in the direction I “know” I’m supposed to go.
It’s spooky, but I’m rarely wrong. Of course, there have been times where I
have been completely, terribly, most embarrassingly wrong, with my poor feet
paying the price. On the other hand, quite a few times I have been asked for
directions, and have known what to say.

Once at the Zoloti Vorota (Golden Gates) in Kyiv on a
Sunday morning, a man with a young son asked me how to get to a particular
street. I thought it was down this way but, just in case, took out my guidebook
to check, explaining that I was from Canada. Well, he was from Zaporizhia. We
enjoyed a laugh, talked for a bit, and then they went on their way – in the
direction I had originally indicated.

To be in Ukraine’s shrines or on the actual sites of
ancient history is quite moving.

The first time I entered St. Sophia Sobor in Kyiv, I
sensed this strange physical and spiritual emotion, and was moved to tears. I
did not expect this. Suddenly I felt all that antiquity and history and the
souls from those times surrounding me. Seeing the reconstructed St. Michael the
Golden-domed Sobor is an emotion of another kind. The beauty and majesty of the
magnificent cathedral is one thing, but knowing how ancient it is and what had
been done to it, and how it rose as a phoenix makes it so much more glorious.

Walking along Virmenska (Armenian) Street and the other
oldest streets of Lviv is also fascinating. From the external buttresses on the
buildings, you just know how very old they are. I find photographing
courtyards, gates, doors, and windows and windowsills in Lviv to be especially
satisfying.

One special spot for me is the old Kyiv Hill, where
Volodymyrska Street begins, at the top of Andriyivskyi Uzviz, and where the
remains of the Desiatynna Tserkva (Church of the Tithes, built between 989 and
1015) are visible. This is Kniaz Volodymyr’s town, from which Kyiv expanded
into Kniaz Yaroslav’s town (the areas of St. Sophia and Zoloti Vorota).
Kniahynia Olha’s residence, a palace inthe-round, was located on this hill. The
earthen rampart (val) that surrounded that first town is still there. The
various historical locations are clearly labeled.

Past the National Historical Museum on this hill is one
of the ravines leading down to the Podil, the old lower town along the banks of
the Dnipro River. This was the commercial port part of the medieval city. It
still has two very closely parallel streets named Nyzhnii Val and Verkhnii Val
(the low and the high ramparts). Khoryv and Shchekavytska streets are there,
too, and, in another area, Lybidska Street is near the stream that still
manages to flow within the city. Talk about Ridna Shkola coming alive, as one
of my sons exclaimed.

In a few places, the original pink-hued stonework of
medieval Kyiv is purposely exposed, for example in the pavement on Volodymyrska
Street near Velyka Zhytomyrska. The same stones and bricks made from this local
material are visible in the walls of St. Sophia in Pecherska Lavra, the rebuilt
Uspenskyi Sobor, and other ancient buildings.

The names of the streets, city districts, hills and parks
are testimony to the antiquity of Ukrainian cities, towns and villages. For
example, below the ravine of old Kyiv Hill, the areas are called Honchari
(potters), Kozhumiaky (tanners – remember the story of Kyrylo Kozhumiaka?) and
Dihtiari (tarburners and sellers). Yaroslaviv Val (Yaroslav’s Ramparts) is the
street where the actual ramparts were raised around his expanding city. Volodymyrsky
Uzviz is the street along which – according to the chronicles – people walked
from the upper town to the Dnipro River to be baptized in 988. Virmenska Street
is where the Armenians settled and lived in Lviv from its earliest times. The
village of Pechenizhyn definitely has something to do with the Pechenihy tribe
of Volodymyr’s times. The stories behind the toponyms are endless and, if you
know even a shred of Ukrainian history, so much more interesting.

One place I must visit this summer is the site of the
excavations by Vikentiy Khvoika – the Paleolithic site on Frunze Street in the
Podil. That’s about as far back as our human history goes. Talk about Ukrainian
antiquity, eh?

I am at home in Ukrainian churches, no matter which
denomination. The atmosphere, the reverence, the iconography, the people, the
singing – it is mine, it is familiar, it is what I grew up with. (The only
church that was foreign to me, I later learned, belonged to the Moscow
Patriarchate. Back in 1993 we came to a church in Chernivtsi during a service.
What was very strange and uncomfortable to me was the way the women were
scurrying around, hunched over, heads down, kerchiefs over their foreheads. It
was as if they were afraid to stand up straight, and face the priest, the altar
and the icons directly.)

And so, I will be back this August. Since 1993, I have
been fortunate to lead a folk art and culture tour to Ukraine each year, during
my vacation (oh, that day job interferes). I enjoy showing off my other “home”
to those who join me. In the last few years I have stayed for a bit after the
group leaves to wander the streets of Lviv and Kyiv. And, as usual, I will be
luxuriating in the sheer pleasure of being there.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

The summer camp season has ended. As I sent my older
children off to camp, I reminisced about my teenage summers. I belonged to SUM
(Ukrainian Youth Association), and the beautiful camp in Ellenville, N.Y. was
my summer home. At first I was a just a camper, but later, at a still early
age, became a counselor. The summer I graduated from eighth grade was also the
summer my mother finally cut off my long braids. Sure, it was convenient to
have braids, but at 13 I wanted a change. After all, I was a teenager now and
even a counselor at camp! With my new straight-as-a-board shoulder length hair,
I turned over a new leaf. It was hard work being a counselor. And I was
responsible for a roomful of lovable but mischievous 7- and 8-year-old boys.
But there was also time for fun. The counselors and older staff got together in
the evenings for stories and songs. Many of the people had beautiful voices,
and the Ukrainian harmonies of the folk songs were out of this world. One of
the counselors was a handsome "older" man around 18. For a 13-year-old.
that's pretty old. He was tall, tan, had a gorgeous smile, and was a marvelous
dancer. I, and the rest of the younger female counselors, had a crush on him.
Every Saturday evening there was a dance for the older campers and counselors.
While the Ukrainian tangoes and waltzes played over the PA system, we either
danced with the other girls, or waited for the young men to ask us to dance.
There were usually fewer boys, so it was a big deal if you did dance with a boy.

For one of these Saturday dances. I planned to do something about
my crush on Slavko, the"older man.” He was going yo notice me, because I
was going to make myself especially pretty. From home, I had brought my
mother's home permanent curlers. On a Thursday I asked my good friend Marusia
to set my hair with these small plastic curlers. I remember instructing her to
be sure to set the hair tight, because my hair was long and thick. I forgot
that it was also fine. To ensure that it set well, I wore those curlers from
late Thursday until early Saturday evening, a scarf tied back on my head. Do
you want to guess what happened next? The curl was so tight we could barely get
the curlers out of the hair! I say we, because every girl available was helping
to free me from my beauty trap. After the curlers were finally removed, I had
the first Afro on a Caucasian person, around five or six years before Afros
became "in." Not only could we not get a comb or brush through it, my
fingers couldn't get through it. Heartbreak! It's already getting dark, the
dance is about to begin, and I'm in a panic about the frizzy mound atop my
head. I'm supposed to dance with Slavko tonight!

I did go, with another scarf tied around my puffy head. I
was so embarrassed I could die! My friends didn't help much, because to them
this whole thing was a riot. Barely holding back tears of laughter, Marusia
even reminded me how I had instructed her to make the curls, real tight,
"so that it would hold." Slavko did dance with me once, if I remember
correctly. He didn't even ask why there was a scarf on my head in the middle of
summer, at a dance yet. If he knew I had a crush on him, he never let on.
Thirty some years later. I can smile now as I recall this one-sided puppy-love
affair, and my Ukrainian Afro. But at the time, it was no laughing matter.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

There is so much interest in genealogy today -- you want to find your roots even though you've been so far removed from your Ukrainian relatives for so long. Here are two articles about starting the search. (originals published in The Ukrainian Weekly)

I'll be leading my 16th (or so) tour to Ukraine in July (please see http://cobblestonefreeway.ca/tour-package/folk-art-and-culture-tour/ --- still a bit of time to register! Go for it!

_______________

YOU WILL FIND THEM IF YOU GO – Finding Relatives
in Ukraine

Getting the Place Name Right

Orysia Paszczak Tracz

Five minutes sometimes…. ok, a half-hour at most…. that
is the time needed once you arrive in your ancestral village to find someone
from your family. If there are no living relatives,
someone in the selo (village) will know where the family lived, and show you
where their house is or was. Of course, you need to know the name of your
village and the povit (county or district). Knowing the oblast'
(province) would help. Why is the selo name not enough? Just like
in any other country in the world, there are a few settlements with the exact
same name – just how many Plainfields, Middletowns, and Baysides are there in
the U.S.A.?

So before we get down to finding the people, let me first
tell you where to go…

If you or your family have been in contact with the
family in Ukraine, or in the Ukrainian lands now within Poland, or Slovakia,
you are fortunate, because you have at least one letter from them, with the
family name, the village, the povit, and the oblast'. You're ready to go!

If your ancestors came to one of the Canadian prairie provinces, or to Pennsylvania,
New York or North Dakota a century ago, and your family
lost contact, don't pack your bags just yet. On the other hand, don't
lose hope. Usually, there is some family memory, some stories from the
family or from friends, photos, documents such as baptismal certificates, the
ship card, or some other identification.

But often there isn't. From the photos, maybe you
can tell what part of Ukraine
they lived in – the clothing will help, sort of. Depending on the
formality of the occasion, they may have worn their own traditional regional
costume, and then it is easier to at least narrow down the region. Or,
they could have gotten all gussied up for the portrait and wore the almost
non-descript urban clothing of that time, leaving no hint as to place of
origin.

The various Ukrainian genealogical societies in Canada and the US are most informative and
helpful, especially to the seekers who have very little, if any, information on
their family, and no knowledge of Ukrainian.

You need to be observant and careful, because some
websites are strictly commercial and may or may not have reputable people
running them. Some may be like the ones in the mail or online ready to
sell you the family crest for "Smith". A trusted friend or
community member may sift through some of this advice that should be taken with
a bushel of salt. Then there is one Ukrainian genealogy discussion group
which, while informative, seems to have been taken over by a person who tries
to convince everyone from any part of Ukraine that their ancestors were
"rusyn," even if they were from Lviv or Volyn.

But let's get back to the selo, the one you need to
visit. You remember your baba talking about Kuty, her village of so long
ago. She may have been a Hutsulka, from the Carpathian
Mountains, and her Kuty may have been the famous village everyone
thinks of when they hear that place name. But, a big but – rather than
that selo, maybe she was from one of the three Kuty in Lviv Oblast, or the two
Kuty in the Ternopil province? Oh, she was from Volytsia? One of the eleven in the Lviv
region, or the three in Ternopil? Dibrova (grove)? How about five each
in Lviv, Ternopil, and Ivano-Frankivske provinces. The common place names are
as prolific throughout Ukraine as forest mushrooms after a rain, but even the
more esoteric ones can give you trouble. There are four Khatky
["little houses"] in the Lviv province, and only one in Ternopil, and
two Tulyholovy ["heads cuddling together"] in the Lviv oblast.

Two Kapustyntsi ("cabbage things"), six
Zalissia (beyond the woods or forest) , two Shepit (whisper), a whole stack of
Sloboda (large village) and Slobidka (hamlet), four Dobriany and two
Dobrovliany, and Boyany, Boyanets', Boyanychi, Boyanivka and Boyanchuk…

Oy,
gotta stop, I'm having too much fun! Next time, we'll start looking for
family once we get to the right selo.

________________

YOU
WILL FINDTHEMIFYOUGO – Finding Relatives
in Ukraine

It Helps If They Look Just Like You!

Orysia Paszczak Tracz

We've established which selo, povit, and oblast' is "your" ancestral
place. Now we arrive in the village.

In the last article, I should have mentioned that one way of finding
family is writing to the sil'rada in the village – the Sil's'ka Rada
(village council), addressing to village, povit, oblast', Ukraine.
Try to have the letter written in Ukrainian, a neighbor or friend can
help but, if not, write in English – someone there will
know the
language. Ask very general questions about the family – give names,
years, but not much more. Let them reply to you with information.
This avoids "finding" relativesyou
never knew (or actually had). You
don't want relatives coming out of every stodola.

Before you set out to the selo, you
need to arrange for a driver – and
interpreter, ifyou need. The
driver should be someone who knows his
way – not only around roads, but around people. This is important,
because the way you ask questions is crucial to finding
out anything
and anyone. Prepare ahead of time – ask people who have traveled, who
have family there, and who know people they can trust. And agree upon
the fee for the trip in advance (don't forget a nice tip, if
deserved).

During my tours, in helping people find and communicate
withrelatives, I have had to run interference. Some
folks had pushy,
intrusive very distant relatives that would not go away, others had
people they weren't even sure of. As the "glorious leader" of
the
group, I was the stranger who could say "no." I often go to the selo
with people from my group. It is a truly satisfying, blessed
experience.

Now to find your folks. We arrive in the selo, the
right one – we
hope. Our driver either goes straight to the sil'rada, or stops the
car as an elderly person walks towards the car. "Slava Isusu
Khrystu….. dobryi ranok, Vam, babusiu…" [Praise be to Jesus… good
morning to you, grandmother] You
must know the correct ritual
respectful greeting. Then you ask about this and
that family.
Usually it turns out there are a few families in the village with the
same surname. Then yougo
into specifics. Ifyou know
the first
names of the ones who emigrated, and when, that helps. If
not, you
ask if anyone had left for Canada or America so many
years ago. "Oh,
those Romaniuky, of course! Go down this way….
Wait, I'll go withyou…." And off yougo to the house at that end of the selo.

Last August, Nadia [names have been changed] from Vancouver wanted to
meet her father's family in a village near Radekhiv. He had supported
his brother's family for many years, helping put the children through
medical school. We arrived in the selo on a Sunday, mid-day, during a
village council election. The officials were all there. We asked
for
the "Ivakhiv" family. The head of the council thinks a bit,
says that
there are three Ivakhiv families in the selo – but – you
should go to
the one on this-and-this road, because, turning to Nadia, "you
look
just like them." Sure enough, she did!

Another time, in Stari Kuty, in the Carpathian Mountains, Olia wanted
to find her grandmother's family. At the sil'rada,
no one recognized
the old names. Then Olia took out the old photographs from her baba,
and – of course – everyone there recognized the "Stakhiv" family.
Someone from the rada goes on the bus with us, and we all drive
through the selo to the Stakhiv house. Olia's distant cousin is quite
shaken, because a few days ago he had dreamt about something like
this.

Joe from Edmonton was looking for his uncle's family near Brody.
Approaching an old man on the village road, the guide asks about "Osyp
Senkiw." No, don't know anyone like that. "He's blind in
one eye and
has one leg." "Oh, that Osyp! Of course!"

When we went to the village of Uvysla, Halia found her great uncle's
face looking up at her from a book on the sil'rada display table – he
was a hero of UPA in this very patriotic village. The elderly lady
who wrote the history of the village was called, and told us all about
Halia's family. She showed us where the church bells had been buried
to prevent their melting down by the Germans. She also showed us the
burials mounds of the many village resistance fighters executed by the
Soviets.

One time, a person in my group just wanted to see her grandparents'
village. No one would be left, since the whole extended family had
left for Canada a century ago. We stopped at a light in Rohatyn, and
our guide opened the door to ask directions to Soroky. A young man
thought he was getting a ride and entered. After a confused
conversation, it turned out he was trying to get to Soroky! Well, we
had our guide, which was good, since this village was quite remote.
Donna did not find any actual relatives,
but half the village had the
same surname as her relatives – few related to each
other. The selo
was so old, with so many extended clans, that these were separate
families. The cemetery was full of "Saranchuks." We all
had a good
time anyway.

Near Terebovlia, in Zubiv on a rainy day (of course), we approach the
old man walking down the now muddy road. No, he can't tell us about
the Yurkiw family, because he's "new" in the selo, one of the many
exiled by the Poles in the Akcija Wiszla deportation in the late
1940s. He takes us to one house, where the people know others from
that particular extended family. This gentleman does ask if
we know
the Potichny family, because he was taught by a Potichny in Pavlokoma,
the village where the Ukrainian population was murdered by the Poles
after the war. As we were walking down the road, I looked back, and
there was a kerchiefed head looking out from every gate as far back as
I could see.

Some people going to Ukraine don't have any relatives
left there.
They are happy just to see the selo, to go to the church
and cemetery,
and walk around the streets. "I just wanted to see the place, to be
there." Even though these are people of a few generations in North
America, they instinctively take a small clump of soil from their
village to treasure. In the twelve years I have led the tour,
I had
only one person who went all the way to Ukraine who was not interested
in seeing her ancestor's village. And we were only about a half-hour
away. I still cannot figure that out.

Once youfind your family, ifyou had not been in contact before, you
may wish to revisit them. Be prepared for a
celebration, a hostyna
that will last for a long time. And don't think that the first entrée
served is the only one of the meal. The food keeps coming and coming.
Be sure you bring your own gifts of drink, flowers,
family photos,
and envelopes with dollars (or – Euros?). You will
certainly be
loaded down with gifts for you and the family back home.

So, ifyou are motivated, do the
genealogical searches but, at the
same time, ifyou know the place,
just go and findthem.
The family
will be waiting. They remember and will be waiting for you.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The beginning of the end of the USSR was the cover-up of the Chornobyl explosion. The officials' families and children were being put on trains to get out of Kyiv. The Ukr. population was told to continue celebrating the Sunday with parades. Normal. But then, when the earthquake in Armenia happened a few months later, Gorbachev issued pleas for help. There were no pleas after Chornobyl.

I spoke with a Ukr. artist who came to Winnipeg with an exhibition a few years later. He spoke openly about Chornobyl and the system. "I am no longer afraid. When they put my elderly mother and my wife and young children in such danger, when they themselves were escaping the air itself, I cannot remain silent." There were many like him. The final straw.

During the "Spirit of Ukraine" art exhibit at the Wpg Art Gallery (from Ukraine) in the summer of 1991, one of the curators smiled bitterly at my comment -- I had said something about the summer rain -- "Yes, but at least you know what is coming down in that rain."

Sunday, November 1, 2015

My
father, Vasyl, died almost nine years ago. The day after my sister's wedding,
he suffered a massive heart attack, spent two months in a coma, and died
without regaining consciousness on November 1, I978. For some reason, Father's
Day is the hardest day in the year for me, more painful than the day of his
death, or his birthday. Tato lived a life similar to that of thousands of
Ukrainian men of his generation (born right before and during the First World War).
He was born and grew up in the Boyko region. His mother died when he was very
young, and the stereotypical evil stepmother came into his life. He finished
the schooling available under Polish rule to the children of the village
(selo). The family was strongly aware of its national and cultural ideals, and
participated in the organized life of the selo.

During
World War II, my father was one of the 2.5 million young Ukrainians taken as
forced laborers to Germany. He was lucky. instead of a munitions factory or a
mine, which were prime targets for Allied bombs, my father wound up in a dairy.
There he met my mother, who was a forced laborer on a nearby farm. I was told
that there were even those who volunteered for work in Germany because ''Hitler
promised us a free Ukraine...'' From what I remember of my parents'
reminiscences, in the human turmoil during the middle and end of the war in
Germany, the Ukrainian slave laborers did not just do their forced jobs for the
Reich. A Ukrainian anti-Nazi underground was very active. The one incident I do
remember my parents retelling, was when my mother stole (yes, stole) her
brother and other Ukrainian political prisoners out of a jail carved into the
rock of the Alps (that's another story). Without everyday clothes, identity
papers, and a knowledge of the German language, they were as good as dead. The
people in my father's underground group forged identification documents for the
escapers, who could then move about the country, even go back home. I remember
being told by Mama long ago, "If I had stopped to think what I was doing —
and the danger involved - never would I have survived. " For most
transgressions, it was execution on the spot, or the lager (concentration
camp). I suppose in today's anti-Ukrainian climate the Ukrainian slave laborers
in Germany are next on the list of our diligent Nazi hunters. After all, they
did work for the Reich (what difference does it make whether it was voluntary
or not?), then they even forged documents, stole and spied (what difference
does it make if it was against the Nazis, a crime is a crime - even during war
-- no?).

During
that war, my parents suffered through the death of their first-born. Lesia, the
older sister I never knew, died of pneumonia at 14 months. There was no medical
care for the Untermenschen (subhumans, i.e., the Slavs). My mother was
convinced it was the travel on cold military trains, their windows shattered, and
her “cold” breast milk which contributed to the baby's death. Now, I'm afraid
to ask for more details, because those memories may devastate an already
fragile parent. After the war there was no going home. It's hard to imagine the
inner turmoil of these idealistic young adults, torn between family and home,
and the reality of the foreign political system now ruling that home. For the
members of the nationalist underground, going home meant Siberia or immediate
death. After what they saw of the forced repatriation in the DP camps, their
choice was made for them. Those from western Ukraine could prove they were
Polish citizens. The others, from eastern Ukraine (under Russian rule) lied.
What irony - desperate people felt grateful for having been under the heel of
one cruel foreigner instead of another! Once in the United States, my father
worked. Hard. Not knowing the language, he had little choice of jobs. His
first, in a mattress factory, left his hands cut and bleeding. Then, there was
the truck manufacturing company, and the factory where they made the brass
horses with clocks mounted into their stomachs. Along with his day job, and my
mother's night job cleaning offices in Lower Manhattan, my parents were
janitors of their building in Jersey City. Is there any DP family whose parents
were not janitors of an apartment building in 1948­ - 1949-1950?

Despite
of the drudgery and exhaustion of work, Ukrainian life was not forgotten, with
the family participating in church and organizations. Soon I was receiving my
own "Miy Pryiatel" (My Friend), a children's magazine published in
Winnipeg and edited by Father Semen Izyk, a survivor of the death camps. After
all these years, a scene from my childhood stands out. In our apartment on
Grand Street, in Jersey City, my father is lying on the couch, quietly weeping,
in his hands a letter written in purple ink on graph paper. Mama is pacing the
rooms, also crying. The letter was from home. After Stalin's death in 1953,
separated families could write to each other again. Only now did my parents
learn of the deaths in their families right after the war — my father's father,
and my mother's mother and brother.

Tato
was a quiet man. He didn't express it to us much, be we knew he loved us and
was devoted to his family. But I knew that above family, above everything, his
whole being was devoted to his Ukraina. He longed for home, he prayed for
Ukraine's freedom, he lived for his homeland. The only way he could practically
express his devotion was to belong to the Organization for the Defense of Four
Freedoms for Ukraine. Tato always attended meetings, served on the executive, went
carolling to raise funds. I wonder if the top brass fully appreciated what the
rank and file did. He was one of the foot soldiers, who worked because he
believed in The Cause. A long time ago he had pledged himself to Ukraine, and
had sworn to obey the organization. He believed, and obeyed. I hurt him deeply
once when, during a discussion, I reminded him that during the war Ukrainians
fought amongst themselves and, maybe, for the greater good, they shouldn't
have. To him, his cause was right. It was for the good of the nation. No
discussion. Ukraina and his family there were always in his thoughts. When the
parish in Newark voted to change the calendar, and celebrate Christmas on
December 25, Tato went along unwillingly. And on January 7 he quietly went to
church again, because then he would be celebrating with everyone back home. The
understanding pastor held services for the fiercely stubborn people like my
father.

Tato
was so anti-Communist that he even objected to the red color of my coat. When
we talk about the immigrants after World WarII who still kept their emotional
suitcases ready, my father was one of them. Rationally, he knew there wouldn't
be a change soon in the Soviet political situation. But deep in his heart, he
hoped against hope. He wanted so much to believe that one day he would go home.
When Mama traveled back in the early 1970s to see her family after 30-some
years, Tato would not go along. There was no way he was going to give 'them"
(i.e., the Russians) any of his money. And yet I know how he longed to touch
his Ukrainian soil. Tato was very proud of my defense of Ukraine in my writing.
I didn't know this until after his death, when a friend of his told me how he
always bragged about my latest letter to the editor. I knew then, that in spite
of all my normal childish and teenage transgressions, I did OK in my father's
eyes.

About
those eyes. Tato was a handsome man with black bushy eyebrows over very large,
very blue eyes. My sister and I inherited his big eyes, as did all our
children. You can tell those Paszczak eyes a mile away. As most immigrants,
Tato was a devoted American citizen. He always voted — Republican, of course -
because they were anti-Communists. In a sad way, I'm relieved that he's not
here today to endure what his friends and compatriots are going through. He
would have felt betrayed, totally devastated by Ronald Reagan, the Republicans,
and the U.S. Justice Department's Office of Special Investigations (OSI). Tato
knew what he worked for and against during the war. And now the country that
welcomed him is betraying all Ukrainians because of a lie. His heart and soul
could not have taken it. Maybe Tato died from happiness. At the wedding
reception he told a friend that this was the happiest day of his life, because
now both his daughters wеге married to good Ukrainians. To him that meant
everything. He was surrounded by friends, including a wartime and DP camp buddy
whom he hadn't seen in decades, who had come all the way from California.

After
his collapse, there was hope at first that he would come out of the coma. Then
slowly the realization sank in that he would not. We had the time to accept
this. At least he was not in pain. To me, Tato's funeral was something I floated
through. We were in a daze. I remember the funeral director asking if we wanted
flowers from the family. Thinking that he meant another wreath, we decided
instead to donate the money to the UPA (Ukrainian Insurgent Army) veterans. And
so, through a misunderstanding, there were no flowers on his coffin, і still
regret that. But Tato would have understood. I'm glad he's resting at St.
Andrew's Ukrainian Orthodox Cemetery in South Bound Brook. At least there all
our people are united, no matter what political stripe or religion. In our
post-funeral thank-you announcement I wrote: ''Sleep peacefully, Tatu. May the
hospitable American soil take the place of that Ukrainian earth, which you
loved above all.''

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ABOUT ME

I'm a writer, translator, and speaker, mostly on things Ukrainian. People often turn to me for information on Ukrainian traditions, costumes, culture, and all related "stuff." If I don't know, I try to find out. On this blog, will share links to my various articles on (hopefully) interesting topics.
I retired from the University of Manitoba Libraries in September 2010. Have been trying to catch up to myself every since (the story of my life)....

Prairie Fire -- "Echoes from Ukrainian Canada."Special issue on Ukrainian Canadian literature, October 1992. Co-initiator of issue and member of guest editorial board.One non-fiction work and one review.

Spirit of Ukraine:500 Years of Ukrainian Painting.Winnipeg:Winnipeg Art Gallery, 1991.Co-editor (one of four) and translator.

Carpathia Credit Union -- 50 Years of Service to the Community.Winnipeg:Carpathia Credit Union, 1990.Co-author with Dr. Halyna Muchin.

Writer of three anniversary brochures for the Rusalka Ukrainian Dance Ensemble of Winnipeg:1972, English text; 1979, Ukrainian text; 1982, Ukrainian and English text.

Over 400 published articles in numerous publications -- The Globe and Mail, Winnipeg Free Press, Prairie Fire, University of Manitoba Alumni Journal, Prairie Garden, Canadian [Antiques] Collector, Forum: a UkrainianReview, and -- columnist for The UkrainianWeekly (Parsippany, New Jersey).

SOME OF MY LECTURE SUBJECTS

Why We Do What We Do:Origins and Symbolism of Ukrainian Traditions

Baba Was Right All Along: Ukrainian Folk Medicine

Songs Your Mother Should Never Have Taught You?Erotic Symbolism in Ukrainian Folk Songs

Konopli - Hemp in Ukrainian Tradition and Life

Perogies on the Prairies: from Ukrainian Village to Mainstream Canada

Origins of Ukrainian Traditions

Ukrainian Wedding Traditions in Manitoba (and general)

Pysanky - Ukrainian Easter Eggs and What They Mean

Ukrainian Christmas

Symbolism in Ukrainian Songs and in Folk Art

Free-for-all re Things Ukrainian

My 15th Folk Art and Culture Tour of Ukraine in 2012

The dates for 2013 are Aug. 22-Sept. 8. Please book early.

Folks are asking about this tour -- word of mouth is good! But if you are interested, act quickly to be sure to go. You'll need to reserve with Martha Banias at The Great Canadian Travel Company, and also be sure that your passport is not within 6 months of expiring at the time of the trip!